My Gift To You
by Le Rus
Summary: Ivan has always had a certain admiration for Alfred. What will happen when he discovers that his archenemy and rival of many decades is diagnosed with a rare disease, and there is only one possible way to save his life? RusAme.


Alfred patiently sat in the confinement that was the Hospital room as he silently tapped his foot lightly against the polished linoleum floor. The American had been texting Arthur for the past thirty minutes, listening to the constant ticking of the secondhand on a clock that seemed to be decelerating with every waking minute. A drop of sweat dripping from Alfred's forehead onto his phone signaled his rapidly growing emotion of worry as he looked up at the miniature clock on the wall adjacent to him.

'_Damn_…' Alfred thought to himself, wiping the fresh sweat off of his mobile device with the end of his t-shirt. '_The Doc said he would be back in ten minutes, but it's already been a whole hour. What's taking that old fart so freaking long? I have a life, too, y'know_…'

Alfred's original plans for the day were to get his once every six month check-up over and done with, then arrive two hours early for the world meeting in London. At this rate, he was going to be late, and he really wasn't in the mood to hear Arthur's bitching for the Lord-knows-how-many-eth time. He's gotten lectured at meetings by the menstrual Englishman countless times before, and let's just say that at the end of each conference there almost always seemed to be at least one bloody nose and someone hunched up on the ground in a little ball clutching onto their Netherlands.

How ironically and obnoxiously fun that sounded. Really.

Alfred scoffed at the very thought, staring at the clock as his mind began to drift elsewhere. What is the doctor was taking so long because… because something was wrong with his body?

No, nonsense. Or, as Arthur would say it, '_Complete poppycock_!'

Everyone knows that America's the hero! Heroes don't get sick with diseases! Wait… No, that isn't necessarily true. '_Maybe there's nothing wrong with me… Of course not, that's simply not possible. I work out every now and then, and I've been cutting down to five burgers and four liters of Cola a day… I'm perfectly fine. I'm a perfectly healthy American. Yeah, that sounds just about right_.'

Alfred began to relax from the internal battle running through his mind and slumped into the uncomfortable steel hospital chair, stretching out his arms before placing them behind his neck and spiraling into a treacherous, smoggy dream world.

Alfred felt his lungs burn with every intake of breath, his senses picking up the faint scent of burnt ash and charcoal. The American opened his eyes to be faced with a black, starless atmosphere and a concrete trail that led straight through what looked like a field of dying grass that was lit ever so slightly by the crescent reflecting the sun's light in the pool of black blood blanketed over his world of vision. He slowly turned his head around in suspense and regretted his actions when he was faced with a tall, elegant, and well-decorated gate that matched up against the moonlit night, something written out in Cyrillic along the top edges of the locked doors.

Советский кладбище.

Alfred didn't know what to make out of the neatly written Russian lettering, he didn't even have a single clue what the words meant, or how to even pronounce them for that matter. As he somewhat regretted his ignorance for never bothering try to learn the 'commie' language, he shivered as he suddenly felt a shot of freezing cold air smack him across the face, and then glance down at his own body, confused that the breeze of arctic air didn't seem to affect the rest of his body. The golden blond was shocked to find himself wearing a worn beige coat and a faded light pink scarf.

Wait a minute. Beige coat? Pink scarf? But, that could only mean…

Russia.

Alfred ripped the fuchsia scarf away from his neck and threw it down in a haste, then stripped himself of the thick, warm Russian coat, leaving him only in a black muscle shirt, dark green army pants, and brown boots with a slight heel. This was obviously **not** his regular attire, as it was obviously** not** very smart to be so lightly clothed in below freezing temperatures. As punishment for the removal of the thick clothing, the American shivered terribly as the arctic air continued to whistle in the empty sky.

Alfred crossed his arms, one over the other, in an attempt to warm himself up, feeling goose bumps form underneath the pads of his digits as he finally began to walk the concrete trail, abandoning the Russian's clothing, not giving the fact that he magically appeared to be bearing the heavy winter coat and scarf any deep thought.

On the path ahead of Alfred, he was faced with an incoming fog and a lone, leafless tree. He looked at the tree curiously, and then quickly glanced around the landscape. '_Why is it standing in the middle of nowhere, all by itself_?' He quickened his pace, approaching the tree and going off of the concrete trail, allowing his feet to glide over yellow, crunchy grass with ease. The closer Alfred got to the dead tree, the more enormous it seemed to be. It towered over him by at least 15 feet.

With closer inspection of the tree, Alfred investigated every nook and cranny the tree seemed to hide, and found no visible living creatures aside from a crow that had stopped by and left as soon as he came.

The American finally looked down at his feet to find himself standing on what looked like a silver colored plaque. He slowly and carefully backed up to further inspect the plaque and its surroundings, finding a lone rose scented candle that seemed to have never been lit before resting off to the side, along with a lone dying sunflower. '_How did I miss that?_' Alfred continued to study the plaque, which was actually fine marble, to find English lettering engraved in bold mahogany lettering. Alfred bent his knees and squinted his eyes to make out the words written on the beautifully textured stone in the thick darkness.

** Ivan Braginsky**

** December 30****th****, 1991 – July 4****th****, 2014**

** "Lived, suffered. A man, a nation of immense power, and a beholder, a living incarceration of broken dreams. One that still leaves a life of both triumph and heartbreak on the face of the Earth. A man, a nation, the Russian Federation, never to be forgotten."**

Alfred gaped at the tombstone. To say he was shocked would be a _major_ understatement. His rival, ally, whatever Russia was to his country, was apparently dead. On a date that had yet to come, at that! A date that was so coincidentally on his birthday, his Independence Day! This just had to be purely coincidental!

'_What is this I'm feeling_?' Alfred thought as he felt his heart pound against his ribcage erratically, almost as if it was begging for release, to be free from the imprisonment that was the American's chest. Alfred's heart, America's capital, was beating angrily, as if it had been set off by a heavy dosage of electrical energy that traveled throughout his entire body.

The beating of his heart became extremely frantic, as if it were too big for his body and was about to just pop out from the left side of his chest at any given moment. And that's exactly what it did.

Alfred gasped as his heart fell out from his bare chest, creating a rather large gap between the American's abdomen and far upper body, but flinched in pure confusion as he felt no pain. He was further shocked to find that his heart, which landed perfectly into the safety of his left hand, had not shed a single drop of bright, crimson blood since it left his body. The vital organ that seemed to be bloodless continued to beat at a cheetah's pace when in the possession of the young nation's palm.

'_What is happening to me_?' Alfred was beginning to panic and started to step from side to side, the organ still within his grasp and still beating in an unsteady, rushed rhythm. He didn't know where he was, he was wearing that 'commie's' clothing, and in this dark atmosphere he found the Russian's freaking gravestone, which had a death date engraved in it that was still about six or so months away. This couldn't be happening. It wasn't logical. In the American's panic, he grabbed a fistful of his golden blond hair and began to tug at it in frustration, heart still in hand, and dropped to his knees, his head bowing and facing the dead earth. He started to mutter obscenities under his breath, all while not being aware of a flock of crows that began to land behind him on the large tree to hungrily gaze at the organ in his grasp.

Each crow seemed to have the intention to steal and tear away at the crimson body part in the nation's hand, and one finally decided to act upon their temptation while Alfred was still unaware of their presence. The lone black bird stalked its prey, and slowly approached Alfred, stepping softly and instinctively on the grass to prevent producing a 'crunching' sound that would alert his victim of his intentions. Alfred continued to stress.

"_Alfred_," a voice in the distance called. The nation didn't hear this in his meditating, and the crow tip-toed closer and closer toward the organ in the American's palm, eyeing it greedily.

"_Alfred_," the voice repeated, the tone of the voice lightly strained. He still didn't hear it, and the black bird was dangerously close, preparing itself to devour its prey.

"_**Alfred**_!" This time, he heard it. He swore he was going insane, as he looked up slightly, face to face with the bird at the exact moment it stabbed its beak into the heart hastily, as if to kill it, causing Alfred to scream out in sheer pain at the sudden puncture. Blood began to ooze out from the new wound in the organ, proving it was not bloodless.

"**ALFRED!**" The voice called out in a raised voice, finally pulling Alfred out of his miserable nightmare as his eye's fluttered open to reveal his doctor, Dr. Winter, standing before him, grasping his shoulder blades and shaking him to consciousness. Alfred's chest was heaving with every shaky intake of oxygen, his lungs feeling tight and compacted. As he panted, his doctor drew a handkerchief over his forehead to wipe away the fresh sweat. Dr. Winter always made sure to take extra special care of his beloved nation.

Dr. Winter looked at him with a worried expression and set the cloth on the counter next to Alfred's chair. "Mr. Jones, are you alright? I was just about done finishing with printing out your health records and I heard screaming all of a sudden, so I came running to your aid…" He trailed off, pondering his patient thoughtfully while stroking his grey beard, "Would you like something to drink? I promise I won't take much longer, your results are printing as we speak, a nurse of mine has it covered."

Said American looked up to face his doctor who was staring at him as if he were tending to a small child who fractured a bone, with so much care and concern. It was endearing. Alfred returned a small grin of reassurance, "I'm fine. I just had a nightmare was all," he smacked his lips, taking notice to how dry his mouth had become, "A bottle of water sounds nice, though… Thank you."

The American's doctor smiled sympathetically at his patient and got up slowly to nod and disappear into the hallway, reentering the room moments later with the requested liquid in his right hand. His patient took the clear bottled up liquid and immediately unscrewed its cap, inhaled half of the bottle, then glanced back up at his doctor. He suddenly felt the urge to ask a question that came to mind so seemingly unexpectedly.

"Um… Doc, can I ask you a question?" Alfred breathed, wiping his mouth with the right sleeve of his bomber jacket.

"Why, of course, Mr. Jones," the elderly man replied, looking his patient in the eyes. He desperately hoped that he would not ask if there was anything wrong with his well-being, for he dreaded the thought of his beloved nation breaking down into tears right before him when he finally broke the news to Alfred regarding his body's current health status. Yes, Alfred is a strong nation, but… Still, the idea of him drowning in his own tears is heartbreaking.

"Do crows prey on people?"

Alfred's doctor inwardly left out a heavy sigh of relief. '_Well… that was most certainly… unexpected. Such a silly question, as well_.'

"Why, no, Mr. Jones, they don't. They're carnivorous, yes, but they don't eat what's not already dead when you leave out the mice and insects they mainly live off of. They're scavengers, and even if they preyed on human beings, I would think that the person would have to be dead and rotting already, definitely not living," he looked at his patient questioningly upon seeing the young nation's blank expression, "If I may ask you so kindly, whatever in the world would make you ponder such a question, Mr. Jones?"

Alfred snapped out of his trance, and then looked down at his thumbs, twiddling them in an attempt to occupy himself. "Well… In my nightmare, there was-" he stopped, mid-sentence.

Something inside of him was saying that it was not a good idea to be telling people of his not so pleasant dream; society would just merely label him as 'insane', someone not to be taken seriously, a misfit. In the end, it could just all mean nothing. The dream could have been just a mere figment of his imagination, an abstract of an event that would most likely never occur within his lifetime. Whatever his fantasy was supposed to depict seemed impossible, and he knew he was no fortune teller.

"Just… Never mind it. Do you have my results yet?"

Dr. Winter tensed up. Oh, how he dreaded this moment. The second he discovered there was a major issue regarding his patient's health, he wished he did not have the burden of being the one to tell him. He tried to get one of his assistants to do the task, but they all felt the exact same way. No one wanted to reveal to their nation, the United States of America, that he would most likely be dead within a year. It was heartbreaking, for his chance of surviving was next to impossible.

This whole event could be labeled as one of Dr. Winter's most stressful days of his entire health career of 32 years.

"Why… yes, Mr. Jones, I believe that the nurse should be about done printing out your files now. Please, excuse me as I go and retrieve them."

Oh, how he dreaded this moment.

Dr. Winter left the room yet another time, and came back seconds later with the paperwork in hand, Alfred waiting patiently in his steel chair as he continued to twiddle his thumbs, trying not to think so much about his recent 'experience'.

"Mr. Jones…" Dr. Winter began, preparing himself for his next words, "I'm deeply sorry to be the one to break this to you, but in our review over your exams, we happened to stumble across an issue…"

Alfred's heart skipped a beat upon hearing these words, his head yanking up to meet his doctor's orbs, his own filling with a growing terror. '_No_…'

Dr. Winter took a deep breath, then stared directly into his client's clouded sky blue eyes with a sorrowful, melancholy expression, preparing himself further to announce the horrifying news. "Among all of the staff and I and a whole lot of arguing, we were able to diagnose your issue. What we discovered was… Well, unbelievable. You seem to have…"


End file.
